


If You Insist

by antimorston



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Pining, Sickfic, alluded, just some cowboys being cowboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 16:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18968767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antimorston/pseuds/antimorston
Summary: When Arthur doesn't appear around camp all morning, Charles goes to check up on him.





	If You Insist

**Author's Note:**

> ah shit...here we go again

It was a normal day, at first. Charles rose with the sun, making his way from his lodgings to the edge of camp for his guard shift. Not many others were awake yet, something that wasn’t new to Charles. He had actually volunteered for the dawn shift because of how quiet things were, just the sounds of birds chirping their good mornings and occasional nocturnal animal scurrying to bed keeping him company. Not that he needed it, of course. He could probably sit there all day, eyes scanning the forest calmly. But the day got increasingly warmer as the sun rose in the sky, and something started to seem _off_. Realizing that it was way past the time when Arthur visited him every morning like clockwork, he grew nervous. _Maybe he slept in,_ he thought. _That man surely needs a rest_. It wasn’t until he was relieved from guard at noon when he started to actively worry for Arthur. It wasn’t as though he felt slighted for not being greeted, because Arthur’s cheerful voice in the morning was nothing more than a pleasant commodity, albeit one he had grown used to. He just knew that Arthur had a set schedule, and he had seen him leave the fire to hit the hay the night before, so he hadn’t exactly had a night which would cause him to sleep in five hours more so than usual. On rare occasions did he break schedule, such as when he was planning on leaving for a task early, getting back late, or when he was sick.

 _What if he’s sick?_ The thought pushed Charles forward as he walked through camp. No sign of Arthur. His horse was there, hitched between Silver Dollar and Taima, so he had to be at camp _somewhere_ , but “where” was the question of the hour.

Tilly stopped Charles as he walked past the woodpile. “Charles, are you alright?” She asked, earning a confused look.

“Yeah, just need some more coffee,” he replied, the lie rolling off of his tongue smoother than silk. “Have you seen Arthur?” It wasn’t the _best_ transition between the subjects, sure, but Charles didn’t care all too much, as Tilly suddenly seemed just as confused as he felt.

“Huh. Now that I think about it, no, I haven’t.” She tilted her head to the side before shrugging. “Awful weird of him not to be out and about right now. Good luck findin’ him.”

“Thank you, Tilly,” Charles responded, allowing her to walk by him before he continued on his way up to the Shady Belle house. It was empty upon his entrance, the only sound coming from the creaking of the old boards under his feet. He made his way up the stairs with trepidation, almost fearing that one would give way under him suddenly.

When he rounded the corner at the top, everything was silent for a moment. Then, a low groan seeped into the hallway, and he quickened his pace. He stood in front of Arthur’s closed door for a few moments, afraid to breach his privacy, but a second groan, this time sounding more pained, reached his ears. He opened the door as quietly as he could, allowing light to seep into Arthur’s room.

That earned an outburst from the other man, who yelled something about shutting it. Charles did, startled. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out Arthur’s form, curled in his bed. The broken window had been blocked off by the shelf with Arthur’s photos pinned to it, the others covered with various clothing items held to the wall by throwing knives. Charles raised his eyebrow, but his main concern was making sure Arthur wasn’t dying, so he made his way over to his bedside as quietly as he could.

“Arthur,” he whispered, voice low. There was something akin to a whimper that met his greeting, a noise that made his stomach twist. “What’s wrong?”

“Hurts,” Arthur mumbled, his face pressed hard into his pillow.

“What does?”

“Eyes. Head. Neck.” He truly sounded pitiful, but Charles thought he knew what was wrong.

“Like a headache, but so much worse, right?” He kept his voice soothing, quiet enough not to trigger any flashes of extra pain.

Arthur whined an affirmative, earning a sympathetic hum.

“Eyes feel like they’re going to pop?”

Another whine.

“I’m going to get you some whiskey, we’ll be here a while.”

When Charles returned, bottle of health cure in one hand and whiskey in the other, Arthur was groaning again.

“How are you feeling?” Charles whispered, already knowing the answer.

“Take a guess.”

Charles smiled despite the worry gnawing at him. “There’s the Arthur Morgan I know and love.”

He half-hummed, half-groaned. “Fuck off.”

“There he is again. Want some health cure?”

Arthur lifted his head just enough to turn it in the direction of Charles’s voice. His eyes remained closed, expression pained. “Please.”

Charles crouched next to the bed and handed over the bottle, watching Arthur try to maneuver the liquid into his mouth while still laying down. He offered the whiskey next, so that his friend could have the pleasant burn to distract him. Arthur took that as well. He took a careful swig, fast enough not to feel the burn in his mouth but slow enough to avoid the pain of swallowing too hard. “I have an idea, but you may not like it,” Charles said as he took the bottle from Arthur’s hand.

“Will it make my head stop feelin’ stuffed full of dynamite?” Arthur opened his eyes then, but only a sliver. The little bit of sclera that Charles could see was tinged red, contrasting the blue of his iris almost garishly.

He watched Charles tiredly until he answered with a simple “I hope so.”

Arthur sighed, letting his eyes fall shut. “Go for it, Charles.”

“You don’t even know what it is,” he whispered.

“I trust you. Do it.”

Feeling a shiver run down his spine, he was suddenly apprehensive. “You sure?”

“Fucking _do_ it.” His voice was desperate, so Charles decided that maybe he didn’t have much to lose.

“Alright,” he murmured. He slowly climbed onto the bed, trying not to let Arthur shift too much beneath him. He straddled his barrel chest easy enough, surprisingly getting no complaints outside of a surprised huff. “You have a migraine,” Charles whispered, leaning close to the back of Arthur’s head. He lifted his hands, pausing for a moment before he let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding and settling them on his neck. “Sometimes, a massage helps relieve the tension in the muscles.” He spoke in a hushed tone as he pressed his thumbs into the muscles on the sides of Arthur’s spine. “It makes the whole thing hurt less.” He worked at the muscles for a long time, every so often pausing to make sure Arthur’s pain wasn’t increasing.

Arthur stayed silent the entire time, save for when Charles would ask him about his pain. Even then, he would only give his answers quietly. When Charles was sure that Arthur’s neck and shoulders were relieved of tension, he let his hands slow.

Arthur’s voice, broken not with pain but shame, stopped his heart. “Please,” he whispered, “don’t stop.” Charles opened his mouth to ask if he was still hurting when Arthur continued. “I don’t care if it’s not anywhere helpful, just-” his voice dropped to a low whine “-don’t stop. Please.”

Through his shock, Charles felt a flicker of fire. He shifted backwards and started working his hands down Arthur’s back, the urge to press his lips to the bare skin making a rather _sudden_ appearance. He suppressed it, shaking the thought from his head as if his ear was full of water. He had done his best over the past year to push away any and all thoughts of Arthur in that way, and had, for the most part, succeeded. But there was something about the way Arthur was allowing himself to become putty in Charles’s hands that made everything that he had ever thought, or felt, about the cowboy come flooding back.

He worked his hands over Arthur’s muscles, gentle but firm, until he could feel snores reverberating through his fingers. He took a slow breath and removed himself from Arthur’s back, stretching his fingers gratuitously as he sat on the floor at Arthur’s bedside. He leaned against the frame and let himself doze off.

He woke to hands in his hair.

“What are you doing?” He asked, eyes still closed.

“Paying you back,” Arthur answered, voice loud and cheery. “I don’t feel like an old man anymore, and my head stopped hurting, so I owe you something.”

“Then why are you pulling my hair?”

“I’m _braiding_ it.”

Charles snorted, emboldened. “Sure you are, cowboy.”

“I’m trying to show my appreciation,” Arthur whined, tugging on Charles’s hair gently so that he was directed to turn his head, though not forced to.

Charles looked up at Arthur, sitting cross-legged on the bed, head tilted as he watched Charles. “Then kiss me,” Charles whispered.

Arthur’s smile grew like a vine across his face. “ _If you insist_.”  

**Author's Note:**

> hello! if you liked this feel free to check out my [charthur blog](https://transcharthur.tumblr.com/)


End file.
